


Home After

by decrescendo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mary's death, Missing Scene, Shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:04:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decrescendo/pseuds/decrescendo
Summary: Lestrade takes Sherlock home after Mary's death.





	Home After

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a snippet I found in my drafts that I never got around to doing anything with. There isn't much to it.

John went home alone, after.

Lestrade had thought it was a bad idea – a terrible one, really – but after the hospital, after the police station, when all of it was done and John said he was going home and Lestrade tried to stop him, Sherlock had held shaken his head. And then they waited with John on the pavement outside the Yard until his cab came, and then he’d gotten in it and been carried away, back to the little house just outside London where everything would look exactly the same except that Mary wouldn’t be in it.

“Jesus,” said Lestrade, because he could think of nothing else.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, as if he were still watching John’s cab, though it had long since turned the corner.

Sherlock had handled everything, every detail, had spoken to all the police so that John wouldn’t have to. It surprised Lestrade, the ease with which he did it, the calmness and politeness which he had never quite managed before. Then again, he thought, it should have ceased to surprise him long ago the lengths to which Sherlock would go to help John.

It was really far too cold to be standing around like this, and still technically the middle of the night. “I’ll drive you home, then,” said Lestrade.

“I can get a cab,” said Sherlock. His expression did not change.

Lestrade shook his head. “No,” he said, in a tone he hoped booked no room for argument. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

 

 

Sherlock was quiet on the drive to Baker Street. This was fine by Lestrade; he certainly had no idea what he ought to say. Once he had parked, though, and was reaching for his seatbelt, Sherlock broke the silence. “What are you doing?”

Lestrade looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock glanced pointedly down at the seatbelt buckle.

“You’re not staying alone tonight,” said Lestrade.

“Why?”

_You’re grieving,_ Lestrade wanted to say, _or will be, once you’ve gotten over your shock._ Or, _it may be a danger night_ ,because he recognized the signs. Or, _someone will have to tell Mrs. Hudson, and I don’t want you to have to do it alone._ He said none of those things, though, knowing that Sherlock would scoff. Instead he said, “Because I don’t want to be alone, either, and quite frankly, I don’t want to let either one of you out of my sight until I’m sure this business is all cleared up.”

“You let John go,” Sherlock pointed out.

Lestrade acknowledged this with a shrug. “Didn’t want to. You seemed to think it was best.”

“And you trust my judgement?”

There was a vulnerability there, a doubt that Lestrade knew Sherlock had not meant to express. It was written all over his face, too, his stoic mask having slowly worn away: the guilt, the blame, the certainty that his own miscalculations had caused Mary’s death.

“Not about yourself,” said Lestrade. “But when it comes to John, yes.”

 

 

 

Sherlock had been making tea for ages. He’d insisted the moment they entered the flat, a gesture that Lestrade did not mistake for hospitality. It was a distraction, he knew, a comforting routine, and so he did not comment as he waited alone in the sitting room with the minutes ticking by.

When Sherlock finally entered with two mugs he accepted his silently. For a long while there was no sound but occasional sipping. Lestrade kept stealing glances at Sherlock, who sat unnaturally stiffly in his customary chair, eyes fixed blankly on some distant point.  Eventually, once both mugs were empty, Lestrade cleared his throat. “I won’t make you talk about it,” he began, quietly.

Sherlock did not turn to look at him, did not even let his expression change, but Lestrade did not miss the way his shoulders tensed at the words.

“But if you need – ” He cut himself off, realizing how rarely Sherlock ever admitted to needing anything. “If you _want_ to talk about it, I’m right here.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I don’t want to talk,” he said, voice rough.

“Alright,” said Lestrade gently. “Maybe you should try to get some sleep, then. You’ve been up all night.”

“I’m not tired,” said Sherlock.

“Alright,” said Lestrade again.

He had no intention of falling asleep himself, determined to stay awake and watch over Sherlock. He wasn’t sure how he could possibly sleep even if he wanted to; though the adrenaline crash had left him feeling shaky and drained, and though he’d been awake close to twenty-four hours, the idea that he could have relaxed enough to doze off was laughable. And yet some time later he found himself jerking awake without feeling as if he’d slept at all. His back creaked in protest as he straightened, having slumped back into the corner of the sofa. He shook his head, blinking rapidly to clear the sleep from his eyes, and sifted slowly through his disorientation: Sherlock’s flat, he registered, and then, with dizzying suddenness, it came back to him: _Mary._

The lamps in the sitting room had been joined by a weak grey light that filtered in through the windows – early morning, then. He could not have been asleep more than an hour. He was quite alone. Sherlock had gone off somewhere, and the flat was silent except for the muffled noises of a just-waking-up London from the street below. It was a new day, an ordinary day, coming as it always did and as he supposed it always would. He stood to go find Sherlock. 


End file.
